


A Woman Way Over Town That’s Good to Me

by bookgazing



Category: The Bletchley Circle
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1562252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookgazing/pseuds/bookgazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alice and Millie put each other back together with large amounts of alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Woman Way Over Town That’s Good to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ALC_Punk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALC_Punk/gifts).



A respectable clerk, Alice reminds herself sternly, does not spend a Tuesday evening miles from her own bed. A _responsible mother_ does not trip about on a week night telling war stories and arguing about the best way to make a gimlet. Tomorrow the typewriter keys will thunder like bullets, she thinks darkly. She must start behaving better. 

In the back of her mind a trapdoor opens and a woman falls through at the end of a noose. A guard cracks a crass joke while the woman swings. Alice grabs her glass, screws her eyes shut and throws the warm wine down in one gulp. 

There’s a brief scuffle at the sitting room door before Millie appears tenuously balancing a half empty bottle of wine, two mugs, new cigarettes and a bulky, silver lighter. 

‘Did you see that little man at the bar with the loud suit? He had that dreadful hat with a peacock feather perched in the brim! It kept falling in his face and the fool tried to make batting at it seem like a debonair courting gesture.’ Millie’s attempt at miming brings her lit cigarette dangerously close to her hair. 

‘Yes, I got a pretty good look at him.’ Alice rolls her shoulders and shivers off her black mood. ‘Thanks ever so much for inviting him to dance with me. I believe I was “far too shy” to ask him on my own. And getting the band to play a fast number was an especially nice touch.’ 

Biting down on a wicked smile, Millie sinks onto the arm of the settee. ‘Oh lord,’ she says, stretching the bottle out in front of her to examine it. ‘I’ve had far too much to drink if I’ve forgotten something as funny as tha—’

The cushion connects with her head before she can finish.

‘Now that was uncalled for Alice. I was just trying to speed the progress of cupid’s arrow and secure Lizzie that strong father figure all the papers are so keen on. I’ve got your daughter’s best interests at heart.’

‘Yes, well done, the date’s set for the fifth. You’ll be flower girl won’t you?’

‘Of course! I’ll dig out my best pink silk.’

'Well, the colour scheme’s peacock blue so you’ll look a bit out of place…'

Unstoppable laughter fills the flat. Eventually, Millie’s hand steadies enough to pour the last of the wine.

‘Oh no, no more. Come on now Millie, I need my beauty sleep if I’m to look halfway presentable at the office in,' Alice glances at her watch, 'Jesus, five hours from now? Oh, it’s going to be Hell. My feet are killing me after that vile dance partnership you got me into.’ She throws a look of hatred at her stiff shoes spilled in the centre of the room. 

‘Are they darling? Well give them here.’ Millie slumps down into the end seat of the threadbare settee and reaches out her hands. ‘Foot rubs are my speciality. You’ll think you’re walking on water by the time I’m done.’

And that is how Alice Merren wakes up; curled on her side in the early morning sunlight with her feet in her best friend’s lap. 

* * *

‘Isn’t it gorgeous? My boss was just going to throw it away! Philistine.’

Millie squints at the battered old typewriter Alice is petting. It seems unkind to question a woman who nearly went to the gallows, but she’s practically cooing at a beaten up machine. Something will have to be said. 

‘It’s lovely, but… It’s just…’

‘There’s a hole where the E should be,’ Lucy timidly drops in.

‘Quite an important letter that,’ adds Jean, unwrapping their sandwiches. 

‘And the A is missing as well,’ Millie goes on, ticking items off on her fingers. ‘Half the keys that are there don’t have their markings. It’s scratched all over. And it appears to have transferred something terribly sticky to the grass and your dress. Do you even know if the letters print true? And— Oh Alice, don’t cry!’

For Alice has one hand messily splayed over her face, blocking herself from the world. The other is meshed in the gaps between the typewriter’s keys. Her slow tears soak the picnic blanket in fat drops.

‘It’s nothing, I’m fine. I’m fine.’ She raises both hands and waves them off. ‘It’s just… I thought I could fix it up like the old days and… Oh, I don’t know! It’s some tired symbol of redemption I suppose; fixing a broken down old machine. I’m not at my best, it seems.’ She shrugs tightly and plays with the fringe on the blanket, avoiding their eyes.

It’s Millie who carries the bulky, beast of a typewriter on her hip through the stifling summer streets of London. Silently, as they walk, she thinks of Lizzie coming home to find her mother crying over mechanical problems. There have been quite enough tears for that girl already.

Alice walks beside her holding Millie’s purse and shoes. She bashes into the shoulders of ogling passers-by as she concentrates on wrestling a contrite expression onto her face. Ruining their lunch in the park, crying uncontrollably in public and making her friend carrying this monster should make her feel awful, but a quiet, steady smile keeps invading her face for some reason. 

Millie turns into her street, sweating and hefting the machine every ten steps. She carefully ignores Lucy and Jean as they share a significant look. At her flat, she reasons, Alice can work on the typewriter undisturbed and free to breakdown as often as she likes. Millie is a Bletchley girl and Bletchley girls live for logic. This is purely a logical decision.

They all start the trek up the stairs towards Millie’s promise of a celebration drink. Alice trails at the back smiling and shaking her head gently. 

The man in grey watches them from across the street.

* * *

Alice streaks inside when Millie finally opens the door. The rain is hammering through the guttering outside and she’s soaked through. She dashes for the fire and starts throwing off her wet coat and scarf. Millie leaves the door ajar and walks slowly back into the room. 

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh.’ Millie looks vague as if both the card she is holding and her hand are completely new her. ‘It’s a postcard from Susan. They’re having a lovely time apparently. She’s learning to ski.’ Millie laughs shortly and shakes her head in amazement. Alice curses Susan. 

_“Part of me has always felt that I’m running after you, trying to catch the train.”_

Millie’s voice always makes Susan’s parting words sound unbearably romantic. They are unbearably romantic. If only they had been meant that way! Alice has heard that speech repeated over and over in dance halls, pubs and hotel bars at the smoky end of a night. The story always ends the same way but Millie seems powerless to leave it alone. 

Damn Susan’s simple way of filling the past with dreamy possibilities. And damn her regular, kind postcards that always mentioned her husband. 

Alice scrambles for a plan of action. What’s best - offer banalities and ask after the children? That will mean talking about Timothy and probably lead to several consoling drinks. She rubs her head, still aching from last night. Tomorrow’s hours at the office already seem to stretch out forever. 

Alice sighs, tired and aware she’s being unfair. It was always so hard to actually dislike Susan. She was so smart and brave, and she cared about Millie even while surrounded by the distractions of Switzerland. It wasn’t Susan’s fault that every month Alice had to sort out the pieces her blue ballpoint words jumbled up yet again. It wasn’t Susan’s fault that Alice wasn’t very good at doing that. 

Millie is so quiet; staring into space and twisting her rings round. The clock is the loudest thing in the room filling the space with intolerable, lonely ticking. It will have to be drowned out. Clear liquids should do it.

‘Let drink it all through,’ Alice says, squeezing her friend’s shoulder as she goes to close the door. Millie nods, still staring at the pristine snowy landscape on the flimsy card.

Stumbling into the dripping world the next day Alice walks straight into their arms.

‘Miss Merren, might we have a word?’ 

* * *

Alice stubs her fourth cigarette out grimly and wraps her arms tightly around her knees. She stares furiously at the table in front of her; tries to focus on the disembowelled typewriter sitting on pile of newspaper. Contemplating the machine’s puzzle doesn’t calm her like it usually does. Nor does the view out of the window – all those busy people, so sure of where to go and what to do.

She starts another cigarette to keep her hands occupied, then gets up and paces back and forth rapidly. She talks herself into something and then talks herself out of it. Gestures fly. Her daughter’s name is invoked loudly and often. She picks up a book, opens it sharply and then hurls it at the wall. 

‘Alice?’

Her head jerks up, startled. It comes back to her. This is Millie’s flat isn’t it? She has a right to be here. She has a key. But this is Millie’s flat. Millie’s flat. It’s safe here, so she came back. 

She stares blankly, her hand absently rubbing at her neck. And suddenly Millie is close. So very close.

* * *

There is nothing else in the world while they kiss. No men in unassuming grey coats. No tape measures and chalk squares. No postcards. There’s just Millie’s hand in Alice’s hair and Alice’s fingertips tentatively resting on Millie’s hips. 

And then suddenly there is everything: picnics and typewriters and gin. Bright lipstick and billowing, borrowed silk skirts and dancing and keys. And steaming tea. There’s always a pot of tea the morning after the night before. Alice remembers sunshine and amused eyes on the back of her bent neck. Every good moment from the past few months is exploding around them and they pull apart laughing. Alice shyly runs her hand down Millie’s arm, takes her hand and they start all over again. 

It’s a more solemn affair now. Every inch of skin seems miraculous and every look devours delicately. They slide each other's clothes to the floor and start the slow exploration of dedicated research. Hands hungrily make a map of every space and circle around their favourites in triplicate. Alice untangles herself just once to throw the ticking clock out the window. 

* * *

‘Well sweetheart,’ Millie says carefully, ‘it sounds rather thrilling to me.’ 

Alice considers Millie’s collarbone like a scholar and plants a lush kiss on a precisely calculated spot. The conversation is significantly derailed.

Much later she says, ‘Talking it through does make it sound less deadly somehow. I worry about Lizzie, but…’

‘But?’

‘But,’ she says in a small voice, ‘I missed the noose.’ 

Millie pulls her closer then. The sheets crackle around them and a blanket falls to the floor with a soft thump.

‘I go to work every day and I type up reports about the ways other people pay the bills. I’m grateful to even have a job, but…’

‘That’s two buts. A third and you’ll really have a case.’

‘I just couldn’t stand it if I lived a fearful life after you all worked so hard to hand it back to me.’ Alice begins to twist the sheet around her finger. ‘I would hate myself,’ she murmurs dully into Millie’s shoulder.

‘It sounds very simple then.’

‘Yes. I’m still afraid though.’

Millie plants a kiss on top of Alice’s head and rubs her back. Alice smiles and wriggles against her. Distraction beckons, but there’s a question pressing on their contented bubble.

‘Will you be away often?’ Millie steels herself. ‘Will you have to leave England?’ 

‘Oh Millie!’ Alice sits up in surprise and claps her hand over her mouth. ‘I can’t believe I forgot to say. I’m so sorry! Of course they want you as well. I mean they’d like Jean and Lucy too, but they were clear that we’d go everywhere together. I think they’re imagining some kind of femme fatale spy team. I mean, if you’d… would you like to be involved?’

Over the course of the evening, Millie provides a full and frank reply to this quite ridiculous question. 

* * *

Two days later, Millie rings Jean and Lucy. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she says, ‘some men from the government have quite an interesting proposal for us. Tell you more when you get here tonight.’ 

When she rings off, Alice reaches out for her wrist, as she passes the breakfast table, and gently pulls her closer. Millie melts into her lap and swipes the last slice of toast at the same time. Hot buttered kisses turn out to be a delicacy. And when Lucy knocks at the door they discover there’s never enough time between appointments when you’re in love.


End file.
